


Words Unread, and Things Unsaid

by PinkCripps



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Angst, Child Abuse, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Hurt/Comfort, Illiterate!Harry, POV Harry Potter, POV Severus Snape, Severitus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkCripps/pseuds/PinkCripps
Summary: What if the Dursley’s were a little crueler, and a little smarter? What if they didn’t want Harry going to school because they didn’t want anyone to see the bruises?What if Harry had to leave for Hogwarts, carrying a shameful secret? One that Severus Snape is determined to discover.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 125
Kudos: 936
Collections: HC_Severitus, Read





	1. Harry’s Problem

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 

_Black. The color of darkness, of hiddenness. It slinked around him, consumed the life he was in. There was nothing. It was safe._

A ferocious pounding disturbs the silence. and Harry's eyes slowly open. “Get up, boy!” yells a voice from outside Harry’s cupboard door. He hears the latch being undone and waits a moment before pushing the door open.

Harry had been awake for a while by then. He always is, when Uncle Vernon comes around to wake him up.

He crawls out of the space and stretches, yawning as if he had just gotten up. He does not completely understand why he feels the need to hide his hour of silence from the Dursley’s. Maybe he doesn’t want it somehow taken away. Maybe he feels guilty for it because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. People hide things they know are wrong.

Harry shuts the door to his cupboard. The smell of coffee wafts over him as he treads to the kitchen.

“Lazy brat," the man sitting there grumbles almost unintelligibly, "should get up earlier, 'm waiting for breakfast...” Harry's cupboard door is locked in the mornings. He refrains from pointing out the obvious. His dear uncle isn’t quite himself before ingesting a few cups of coffee, so Harry mostly ignores him.

Harry takes out the milk, eggs, and bread from the fridge, deciding to make scrambled eggs and toast today. He cracks the eggs on the side of the counter and lets them drop into the pan. 

They sizzle, filling the air and his head with gentle popping. His legs settle thickly on the linoleum as he stares hypnotized into the pan. The steam swirls him into that peculiar place of images and thoughts.

Sometimes, he wonders about the chick the egg could have been. Is he murdering a chicken by cooking scrambled eggs? Is he taking away its chance at life before it could even begin?

Like how he would have been if he’d died as a baby in the car crash with his parents.

Sometimes, Harry thinks he would have preferred that. So he doesn’t feel too bad about the chickens.

Harry shakes his head, realizing he had been spacing out for too long. He deftly adds a splash of milk—to make the eggs fluffy, he once remembered hearing—and uses a fork to scramble them.

He swirls and puts the bread in the toaster, knowing it was the whole wheat bread from the bag’s blue label. Aunt Petunia was as particular about her diet as Dudley was picky. So Harry had to be careful they each received their correct type of bread.

Harry wasn’t as fussy as either of them; he was glad if either of them left scraps of their bread behind.

He could now hear Dudley lumbering down the stairs. “Mmm, scrambled eggs!” he moaned. Harry had to restrain an irrational rush of anger at the appearance of the heavy-set boy. He sighed internally, wondering for the _n_ th time what was wrong with him. Dudley hadn’t even done anything yet, like push Harry down the stairs or throw away his food. Harry shouldn’t be mad.

Harry served the eggs onto a plate just in time for Dudley to flop into a chair.

“Good morning, Dudley,” Vernon said fondly.

Dudley didn’t reply, occupied as he was inhaling Harry’s food.

“Ah, a growing boy needs to eat,” Vernon said fondly. As Uncle Vernon often declared Harry undeserving of food, Harry wondered what that made him in his uncle’s eyes.

“Don’t be a layabout, Potter,” Vernon said to him decidedly less fondly. “Do your job and serve me those eggs. I don’t plan on being late to work.”

And that answered what Vernon thought of Harry. He tiredly served the eggs and went to butter the toast. As he gave it to Dudley, he heard a distinctive _click-clacking_ coming closer.

“Harry, I need some tea,” commanded Aunt Petunia from down the hall. “And make the new Lipton brand, I want to try it.”

Harry froze in place, but forced himself to move to the tea shelf, knowing panicking would not help him.

Aunt Petunia now stood in the kitchen doorway, greeting her son and husband sweetly. And Harry had an idea.

“Er, the Lipton brand you said, Aunt Petunia?”

She glanced over at Harry in annoyance. “Yes, that’s what I said, boy.” And she eyed a yellow box on the shelf.

Harry picked it up, and when Aunt Petunia simply turned to sit at the table, Harry let out a sigh of relief.

Harry really hated not being able to read.

* * *

Later that day found Harry holed in his cupboard, trying his level best to make sense of the gibberish in front of him. And as usual, the gibberish never magically formed into words.

 _They would for someone else_ , fumed Harry jealously. _Just not me._

Familiar taunts— _stupid! dumb! slow brat!_ —danced around Harry’s mind. He angrily tossed away the paper, suddenly unable to look at it any longer.

Harry didn’t want to look at anything. Sometimes, Harry wished he were blind. Then, he’d at least have an excuse for being illiterate. He squeezed his eyes shut to simulate the experience of blindness, and definitely not to block out his frustrated tears.

It would be so much easier if he had a teacher, if he could just ask what sounds the letters made, if he could just go to the same "school" Dudley got to...

Sighing, Harry opened his eyes and returned the paper to the modest stack of papers he had amassed. They were mostly Dudley’s old homework papers, salvaged by Harry from the recycling bin. Sometimes they smelled a bit, and it was definitely degrading to have to dig through the trash like an animal, but it was the only way he could get his material.

Every time he’d pick out a new paper and every time pretend to read it, and every time he’s be disappointed that he couldn’t. It was all so futile. Life was futile.

 _Oh, feeling sorry for yourself again, Potter?_ Harry thought to himself scathingly. _Pathetic. Selfish. There are people out there with way worse lives. You have no right to be depressed._

Harry tried considering himself lucky. Dudley and his friends always complained about school when they came over. He should be ecstatic at not being made to go.

Actually, Harry wondered why he wasn’t made to go. He knew there was a law that mandated children to go to school; he’d heard Dudley complain about it.

But when he had questioned Aunt Petunia about it, he had received a vague, muttered statement about his parents’ type hiding from the government.

Then she had gotten a horrified look on her face, as she always did when caught talking about Harry’s parents, and later commanded Uncle Vernon to punish him for being a prying little rascal.

Harry told himself to cheer up. His life was good too! Like right now, he was fortunate enough to get a quiet afternoon to himself to study. Aunt Petunia could just as well be forcing him to weed the garden outside, or to scrub the floors, or to do the laundry.

Harry picked up a paper from his math pile. Math always cheered Harry up. It always made him feel at least a little bit smart.

Math was easy because Harry understood numbers. You didn’t need to read to understand numbers. There were only ten of them to remember, and everything after that was just patterns. Harry was good at looking at the example problems and figuring out patterns.

Right now, they were learning fractions. Harry could tell Dudley was bad at them from the low percentage in the corner of the paper. 50%...which was the same as 1/2. Harry smiled, proud of his quick calculation.

His joy was short-lived, however, as the doorbell rang. That meant the mailman, and the mailman meant his quiet afternoon studying was over. Aunt Petunia always made him cook after the mailman

“Get the mail, boy!” She shouted, even as Harry was already crawling out of his haven.

Harry walked to the door and picked up the letters. He knew the only reason the Dursley’s trusted him with this task was they knew Harry couldn’t snoop and read the mail.

The letter on the top of the pile was strange-looking, though, and he stared at it curiously.

Then Harry’s eyes widened as he recognized the markings, same as the markings on a well-worn, hidden scrap of paper: his name.

It appeared...the letter was addressed to him.

Harry separated the letter from the pile and held it in front of him, observing it blankly.

His first letter. Harry’s jaw shifted, gritting his teeth.

And he couldn’t read it.


	2. Green Boy

Making a decision, Harry calmly slips his letter into his cupboard before making his way to the kitchen. He lays the rest of the mail on the table and waits for Aunt Petunia’s instructions for dinner.

Harry does not even entertain the thought of asking her about the letter. He knows with a resigned certainty that it would just be confiscated, and he, punished.

He was less than lively as he listlessly chopped the carrots and wiped the counters. He notices Aunt Petunia give him a look, but gracefully, she doesn’t say anything. Harry is grateful for her tact. He doesn’t know if he could handle lying to her about the letter, being every bit the deceptive liar they all knew he was.

Later that night, as the joyful sounds of the Dursley’s enjoying their meal leak through his cupboard, he picks up the letter.

Harry studies it listlessly, noting the victorian parchment, the red wax seal, the flowing strokes of the letters.

He doesn’t know why receiving the letter should affect him so. There were plenty of things he couldn’t read. One more thing shouldn’t matter, despite its being addressed directly to him, and being the first thing anyone has ever willingly written to him, and it’s positively bizarre, costumed form?

It’s just, Harry had the ominous feeling this was important. And now that he got the idea in his head, he felt with depressing certainty that it was true.

The letter mocked him for his illiteracy. And he could do nothing about it except stare at it with a choked feeling in his throat.

* * *

“Go, Hagrid. It is simply a precaution,” assured the Headmaster after seeing the look of worry on the half-giant’s face. Yet Albus himself looked after Hagrid tensely as the other man shrunk to a speck in the sky.

Severus sneered at the special treatment the boy-who-lived was getting. It was ridiculous. Plenty of families, especially muggle ones, did not respond immediately after receiving their Hogwarts letter. It was not necessary to send someone to check up on the boy only after a few days of silence.

Most likely, the child was busy procrastinating writing a reply letter. Or perhaps, he believed himself too famous for one. Tales of one’s famousness would inflate any ego, especially one who was the progeny of James Potter.

He didn’t blame the muggles Potter lived with. In fact, he might feel a little sorry for them. Severus knew Petunia was never one for arrogance, despite being quite conceited herself.

Or maybe, it would be different for her family. Oh yes, Severus could see Petunia spoiling her sons rotten, cooing over them when they whined like entitled brats.

Severus shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. He had not even met the boy, yet he was casting criticisms of the boy’s character. Severus was not illogical. We would wait and see what kind of impression Harry Potter would make.

He slammed open the doors to his quarters, leaving a loud bang and disturbed air in his wake.

Yet Severus couldn’t help but wonder how accurate those criticisms would end up being.

* * *

The last few weeks of summer had passed in a blur of color and excitement and anticipation and anxiousness for Harry.

Less than two weeks after receiving the baffling letter, a giant man called Hagrid had burst down the door and asked to see him. _Him!_ Just Harry!

While his relatives hated him, they were not stupid. Yes, they had seen the letter, they said. They just didn’t know how to reply. Of course Harry could go shopping for school supplies with Hagrid. Uncle Vernon sickly-sweet smile seemed to harden when it landed on him, but soon Harry was off in Diagon Alley and he didn’t spare two thoughts for it.

Oh, and Diagon Alley! Harry had whirled from shop to shop, buying clothes and candy and even a dictation quill that apparently wrote whatever you said. The chaotic energy and wild sights were all worth the beating Harry got when he returned home.

Harry supposed he did deserve it a little bit for being the reason their door was broken and bringing trouble wherever he went. So it didn’t bother him too much.

Besides, he was a wizard, a wizard who could do magic! He didn’t care how freakish that make him, it was freakishly _amazing_.

Harry couldn’t fathom how a boy like him had earned such a fortune.

Of course, the notoriety for apparently defeating a dark wizard was a bit of a drawback. The knowledge crushed any plans he had of laying low. But Harry hoped once he was in school long enough, people would simply get used to him. He hoped they would forget about him. He depended on it.

Harry turned to lay on his side and scrunched up the bedsheets in his hand. He had learned the truth about his parents today as well. Lies. Everything the Dursley’s had told him were lies. His parents were not useless drunkards or jobless layabouts. They were warriors. Popular, adored, idolized. They fought for Harry, died for Harry. It was difficult to imagine anyone had loved him so strongly once upon a time. But Harry clung to the thought as if he could cling to the very remnants of their love.

Harry had met a nice red-headed boy on the train who, instead of cringing away, wanted to share Harry’s compartment. It gave Harry a warm feeling inside, though in hindsight buying all the snacks on the trolley for him may have been a little excessive.

And there was the girl, who Harry still thought was a little stuck up, but mostly was polite to Harry and didn’t make fun of his old clothes or ratty glasses like the other girls in his neighborhood were wont to do.

And now, lying in his bed, warm and fed and comfortable, Harry was the happiest he’d ever been. The most mind-boggling thing was that he wasn’t expected to work for his privileges either. He hadn’t exactly expected the other children to work for their food and beds, but on some level, Harry didn’t consider himself among the normal children. He was an outcast: a worthless, uncouth brat.

Well, people here had no reason to think of him that yet. And Harry would continue to give them no reason to do so, though it might be hard hiding who he truly was. The Dursley’s never hesitated to let Harry know how evident his strangeness was.

It would no doubt be difficult hiding his disability here in school, where apparently reading was an important skill. Even lying drowsily in bed, Harry felt the anxiety of discovery bind his heart.

But Harry was resourceful, cunning. He had skillfully hidden the worst of his ignorance even from the Dursley’s. And he would continue to find ways to hide here in Hogwarts, even if it meant isolating himself so soon after escaping the isolation of the Dursley’s.

Isolation...Harry had to stave off a few tears while thinking of Ron. Or even Hermione, that bushy-haired girl. He would have to give them up.

Being alone never bothered Harry much before. Before, being alone before meant a break from Dudley’s bullying or Aunt Petunia’s chores.

But now, thinking of the kindness shown to him by Ron, and Hermione, and Hagrid—oh Hagrid. Would Harry have to stop being friends with him too?

His mind wandered to something Hagrid had said while they were in Diagon Alley. While shopping for cauldrons, Hagrid had mentioned a Professor Snape. A Professor Snape who had been friends with his mum. A Professor Snape who knew stories about her.

Harry knew it was foolish. Even now, he almost couldn’t let himself think the thought. But maybe if the man had been friends with his mother, he might be willing to tell Harry a little about her.

Maybe...the man might even care for him a little.

Harry tried crushing the hope that rose with that statement before reality crushed it itself. The man had never contacted him during his eleven years at the Dursley’s. He didn’t even try talking to Harry now that he was here at Hogwarts.

But, maybe Professor Snape had attempted to meet him before but was turned away by his relatives. Yes, turned away and called a freak by his magic-hating relatives. And now, he was just waiting for Harry to have a good night’s rest before talking to him tomorrow.

It was ridiculous and unrealistic. But it didn’t stop Harry from snuggling into the bedsheets, intent on sleeping well for his Professor.

* * *

Harry found himself waking up early as usual. He hoped that later he’d learn how to sleep in without feeling guilty, but for now he enjoyed the solitary quiet. With the curtains around his bed blocking out all the light, Harry could pretend he was back in his cupboard, enjoying his hour of peace.

And Harry suspected he’d need peace today. The day would most likely be rife with possibilities of being found out, and he’d need to stay calm instead of freezing up when he found himself in trouble. It was him against the world.

But such depressing thoughts could not put a damper on his excitement. He was a wizard, going to learn magic! It was unreal!

So with eyes bright and enthusiastic for the day, Harry got out of bed.

He brushed his teeth and took a warm shower, reveling in the fact he could stay in there as long as he wanted. He then dressed in his brand new school robes and bounded back into his dorm, where his dorm mates were just getting up.

“Blimey mate, how are you already ready?” yawned Ron from his bed.

“Uh, early riser.” Harry wanted nothing more than to stay and chat with his possible-friend. But he knew what he had to do. With a painful tug on his heart, he cooly stated, “I’m going to breakfast, now. I, for one, don’t enjoy lazing about.”

And before he could hear Ron’s reply, Harry escaped down the stairs.

He got lost twice on his way to the Great Hall, but he was still early to arrive. The Gryffindor table was sparsely populated, which suited Harry. He took a seat and surveyed in wonder the food all around him.

Though not for too long, as he quickly began wolfing it down.

* * *

Snape sneered in disgust at Potter’s atrocious table manners. It appeared Petunia had gone the route of spoiling the boy. And seeing that the boy had been sorted into Gryffindor as well, Severus didn’t hold out much hope for future good behavior.

And he looked so much like his father...

Severus sighed, resigning himself to a seven-year headache in the form of one Harry Potter.

“Yes, the enthusiasm of the young can sometimes be overwhelming,” the Headmaster commented fondly, noting Severus’s appraisal. “And how are you feeling about the first day of classes?”

“The same as I usually do, Headmaster,” Severus answered blandly. Albus knew how he felt; he’d only been teaching here more than a decade.

“I seem to recall now you were never were quite as enthusiastic as the kids,” Albus chuckled lightly. “But I daresay the year will be quite different, with the arrival of Harry Potter.”

“Indeed,” he said curtly, feeling a flash of annoyance. Potter. Of course the Headmaster wanted to talk about Potter. But he’d be damned before he let the old man make him talk.

He abruptly pushed away from the table, leaving his half-eaten meal. “I must take my leave now.” He sneered. “There are enthusiastic first-years to crush.”

* * *

Severus swooped into the potions class, reveling in the almost synchronized jump of the students in their chairs. Surprising his first class of first years was definitely the brightest spot of every school year. A pity it was all downhill from there.

He spun on his heel and surveyed the class. The frightened stares of the students greatly amused Severus. But then he noticed something.

The boy was missing. His first potions class, and Potter was late. Severus felt a righteous indignation build in him.

He scowled. Silence reigned in the classroom.

“Potions is a subtle science,” he hissed softly. “Every movement must be measured, every action certain. We are not here to help your mother cook.”

Snickers slipped from the Slytherin side, and Draco Malfoy gave Ronald Weasley a haughty look.

“Each step of the process is important. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, after all.”

Severus prowled over the side of his desk, casually picking up a bottle. He held it in front of him, inspecting its contents.

“The smallest mistakes can have the most dire consequences—“

A sharp bang rang through as Harry Potter burst through the door to the potions classroom—five minutes late.

A second of silence, then Severus continued as if the disturbance had never happened.

“Consider, Burn Salve. A useful thing to have, and fairly simple to brew. Deceptively simple.” He twirled the vial in his fingers, allowing it to catch the light. “A student, tired and apathetic, once neglected to add the daffodil leaves while boiling his potion. Without it, there was nothing to counteract the highly reactive mouse hearts from rapidly forming gas.”

Severus slammed the bottle onto the desk, startling the class. “The potion exploded, seared into his skin, and no amount of burn salve can heal the scars he has even to this day.” Severus rubbed a spot on his forearm where he knew the skin was puckered and discolored.

He swept his gaze along the class, hoping they were properly cowed. But he stopped himself from looking all the way to the left. Not just yet.

“The art of potions is beautiful, but deadly. Everything must be calculated. Ingredients cannot be added extraneously, excessively, or _late_.

“Timeliness is not a courtesy, but a necessity here. I will not tolerate anything less than perfect punctuality.”

In the corner of his eye, Severus could see the brat standing frozen in the doorway. Finally, Severus turned his head to look directly at the boy. The moment grew uncomfortably fraught with tension.

“Thirty points from Gryffindor. Do not be late to my class again.” His eyelids narrowed, and his voice became a mere whisper. “Get a seat, Potter.”

* * *

Harry scrambled out the door of the potions classroom, book bag beating against his legs.

“Hey, where you going?” shouted someone Harry didn’t bother identifying.

“Screw off!” Harry returned.

He was dangerously close to tears. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this.

So he ran. He ran and ran, panting hard. Harry liked running. Running had saved him from Dudley and his friends, or a beating from his uncle, or just a lot of his problems in general.

So he ran, and he ran until he no longer could.

Taking big gulps of air, Harry staggered into what was apparently a bathroom. The world warped and twisted through his tears, and it was hard to tell what anything was anymore.

He let out a deep sigh and sagged to the floor. The cold from the tiles permeated his clothes.

Harry hated himself for crying, even as he allowed the pitiful sobs and stinging tears out. It was just so unfair!

Harry was only late to class because he couldn’t read the student map, and there weren’t many Gryffindors to ask for directions down in the dungeons. Harry’s “lazy” notes only consisted of what he copied off the blackboard because he didn’t know how to write down whatever Snape was talking about. Harry couldn’t answer any of the questions because he’d only found out he was a wizard less than a month ago!

Snape hated him. Of that, there was no doubt. Maybe, the man could tell something was off about Harry.

Harry stopped breathing in terror. No, Snape couldn’t be allowed to find out. Harry doubted the dark-haired man would have qualms exposing Harry’s most shameful secrets. He—no, just no, it couldn’t happen—

“Oh, who’s there?” a high pitched voice echoed along the walls.

Harry gave a surprised cry and jerked to his feet, put on alert.

“Don’t be frightened,” came the voice again, and Harry nearly fainted as a translucent girl appeared suddenly in front of him. “I haven’t had company in so long.”

Harry simply stared dumbly at the ghost.

“And I haven’t seen a boy for even longer.” She batted her lashes at him. “Though what’s a boy doing the girls’ loo?”

Harry blushed in mortification. “I—I didn’t know.”

“But it says ‘girls’ on the very door,” she said disbelieving “What a naughty, lying boy! You came in here to see me, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry snapped. “I don’t even know who you are!”

The ghost went from smiling to distraught in an instant. “Oh, how mean! Boys were always so cruel! But who’d want to see me anyway, I’m just sad old Moaning Myrtle.”

Harry carried on, heedless Moaning Myrtle’s dramatics. “And don’t call me a liar. I couldn’t read the sign.”

“What do you mean?

Harry faltered, caught off by the ghost’s sudden curiosity. “I—you wouldn’t understand.”

“I know a thing or two about not being understood.” Myrtle pouted.

Harry swerved on his feet, turning his back towards the girl. But almost against his will, he found himself confessing his secret. “I can’t read anything at all. I’m illiterate,” he says in a small voice.

Shoulders tensed and eyes closed, Harry braces himself. He expects mocking, derision, disgust. But it doesn’t come. Slowly, he turns back around.

The ghost is staring back at him, eyes misty. Quietly, she says, “Oh what a tragedy!”

“A tragedy?” It sounded like the ghost sympathized with him, strangely.

“It’s horrible, completely horrible, that nobody’s taught you to read. It must be hard hiding it. Is that why you were crying, someone found out?”

“Oh, no, that’s not why I was crying...”

“Why?”

“It was for a stupid reason.”

“Is there a stupid reason to cry?” Myrtle said. “People call me stupid for crying all the time, it’s so unfair...”

“It’s just that my teacher was being mean to me,” Harry said hurriedly before the ghost could go off on a mopey tangent. He felt tears prickle in his eyes anew. “And he was friends with my mum so I‘d hoped he might be nice to me. And I know that was dumb to hope for, no adult’s been nice to be before.” Harry creased his eyebrows in a quiet, resigned way and sighed, “I don’t deserve anyone to be nice to me.”

“That’s not true, you’re a perfectly nice boy!” Harry’s chest warmed painfully at the girl’s proclamation. That he was ‘a perfectly nice boy’ was a lie, but despite himself, he latched onto it.

“I almost wish I were back at Privet Drive,” Harry continued. “There, at least I never felt so, felt so—“ Harry struggled to find a word to describe the overwhelming despair he was feeling. “So disappointed.”

“I know, having your hopes crushed is absolutely awful, isn’t it?” the girl related.

Harry looked at her with teary eyes. “It is, Myrtle! It’s the worst thing in the world!”

“Why, there was this one time I told this boy I liked him, it took me so-oo terribly long to build up the courage...”

And while Myrtle rattled on about her woes, Harry found himself coming to a resolution. The reason he felt crushed now was that he had allowed himself hope to be crushed. Hope that depended on other people. Hope that depended on things he could not control.

And that was it; he had put his happiness out of his control by hoping for things he could not control.

So Harry resolved to stop hoping in people. He had never hoped much before anyway when he was at the Dursley’s, and he realized it was what kept him content there if not happy.

Harry could settle for content—in fact, he could hope for nothing better.

Harry felt better after making this plan. So he pushed away his dejectedness, gave his goodbyes to Moaning Myrtle, and strode out the restroom, resolution ringing proudly in his head.


	3. Things Hidden

Saying he would never hope again was a bit of an extreme decision, Harry realized quickly.

Harry woke up early again the next morning. And like last morning, he savored his private early morning time, took an unnecessarily long shower, and got dressed for the day.

But unlike yesterday, Ronald Weasley did not attempt to greet him.

Harry’s breakfast did not fare well that day as he dragged his fork through his eggs. The yolk broke, and he told himself it was not disappointment he was feeling.

The yellow liquid pooled on his plate like blood, and Harry was reminded of past early morning thoughts. What was it about eggs that brought on his maudlin thoughts?

He pushed his plate away and stood up to follow the mass to his first charms class.

Professor Flitwick was a half-elf who genially commanded the class from his short stature, and Harry felt a rush of appreciation for the delightful, whimsical world that was Hogwarts.

Harry listened raptly, entranced with the world he was learning about. Every word imprinted itself into his memory until his mind whirled with pictures and ideas and color.

 _Wingardium Leviosa_ —what a whimsical phrase! Harry joined his classmates in chanting the words to the levitation spell. Though he received little success for his efforts, his eyes remained bright with excitement.

Besides, many of the other kids were struggling with the charm. Harry bit his upturned lip at the commotion between that girl Hermione and Ron.

He stifled his smile. Growing fond of them would not help his determination to avoid making friends.

At the end of the class, Professor Flitwick announced the homework problems due next week. Harry listened carefully to ensure he did not forget them, and he packed his satchel to go to Herbology.

The warm air tickles his lungs. He buries his hands into the dirt in front of him, uncaring of his gloveless state, and squeezes. The smells of soil and air brought forth memories of the Dursley’s: sweat itching his brow, the sun kissing his neck, aching muscles, pleasant exhaustion, freedom, slavery. Gardening had been both a release and a torture.

When Professor Sprout comes around, noting Harry’s efficiency in weeding, he cringes. She kindly calls him a smart boy and awards him five points.

Harry wants to correct her. He is not smart. He can’t even read.

But he knows she will look at him worriedly if he is too self-depreciating, and she wouldn’t understand unless he explained his illiteracy. It is more trouble than it’s worth to be vulnerable, so he stays quiet.

It is weak of him, but he also does not want to lose her regard.

Harry leaves Herbology a tumultuous mix of emotions. He is glad, then, for the free period he has Tuesday afternoons.

He makes his way to the common room, tracing the walls of the castle as he ambles along. He enters through the portrait hole and is immediately accosted by a set-up chess game and Ron Weasley’s gaze.

His look of hope becomes uncertain when he recognizes Harry. “Oh, uh, hey. I was just waiting for someone to come through to play with. Everyone else is busy. Do you...?”

“Uh, sorry, can’t. Have to study.” Harry didn’t know how to play chess anyway.

Ron looked put out at this proclamation, muttering something under his breath.

“Ron!” exclaimed a scandalized voice, and Harry finally noticed Hermione Granger also sitting there in the common room. “He’s just being responsible.”

“Oh shove off Granger!” Ron yelled, storming away.

Harry watched his retreating back uneasily. He doubted Ron would do anything, but Harry didn’t have good experiences with angry people in general.

“Just forget about him,” Hermione was saying to him. “He’s too brainless to understand what’s important.”

“Er,” Harry said eloquently.

“You said you were going to study, right?” she asked with hopeful eyes. “We can...study together, if you want. It’ll probably make it a lot easier.”

She was right. As of now, Harry had no idea how he would study without being able to read the textbooks or even other people’s notes.

Harry could tell Hermione was smart. She could answer his questions and help him understand concepts and just make sure he learned. And, would it be so bad if they became friends in the process?

Harry relaxed his arms at his side and let out a breath.

Only to suck it back in as he realized the severe lapse of judgment he had been about to make. How could he, so soon after his resolution to not place his hope in other people? If he studied with Hermione, there would be no hiding his illiteracy. And any help she might be able to give him was not worth that risk. From how disdainful she was of Ron’s stupidity, there was no mistaking how she would take the news of his dumbness.

Anger at himself turning into anger at the girl, he snapped at her, “I doubt anything’s ‘easier’ about having to deal with your stuck-up personality. No, I don’t want to study with you.”

Harry was satisfied with the hurt look on her face. It meant she would not try to reach out to him again. However, even as turned to march back out of the common room, he mourned for lost possibilities.

He once again meandered a directionless path through the hallways, needing the time to think. An hour later found Harry sitting cross-legged in an empty room, books and parchment and ink spread around him in the resemblance of a nest.

Someday. Someday, when he learned to read and write, it would be safe to make friends. Someday soon.

He looked down at his quill, which had been dripping ink on the parchment. He sighed, and continued tracing the letters from his dictated alphabet. He‘d traced letters before in his cupboard at the Dursley’s, but now that he actually knew what sounds they made, he could properly learn how to write. He had even tried learning a few words.

But it was hard; lines and shapes jumbled into abstract paintings in his mind. Formerly clear strokes would suddenly lose their meaning, and Harry could do nothing but stare at them cross-eyed.

How _did_ kids his age memorize all those symbols and meanings? It seemed to Harry it would take a lifetime. He had never really appreciated before just how smart other kids were. Why, even Dudley could read proficiently.

Which simply more emphasized his own inadequacies. He had heard it many times before, but being at Hogwarts kept on proving over and over again how unintelligent he was.

His mind felt like mush. He wanted to cry.

Actually, he wanted to eat. His belly rumbled greedily, already used to food after two days of regular meals. It was a bit annoying, really. Before, he would have been able to stay in here a week without eating. But he had to venture back out into the world someday.

Harry sighed once more—the sound was becoming quite familiar to him—and packed his stuff back into his satchel.

* * *

“Mr. Potter, if you would stay behind for a moment,” said Professor McGonagall.

Harry froze, hands suspended mid-motion, before mumbling an affirmative noise. He had a splitting headache from defense class, and he was anxious to leave transfigurations class.

However, he settled back down into his seat, aiming for as contrite an expression as he could. He didn’t think he had done anything recently, but that never prevented him from being punished before. So contrite it was.

The professor’s shoes clicked until she was standing right in front of Harry’s desk, looming ominously like bad news. He was afraid to look up.

A piece of paper was slid onto Harry’s desk. Harry’s eyebrows creased as he recognized his own essay.

“Why is this not in your own writing?”

Oh, so he was being accused of cheating. Hmm, not much he could wrangle out of there. He couldn’t disprove McGonagall’s claim. And—Harry groaned internally—nobody could vouch that he had written it as he had studied alone.

But something occurred to Harry. “How do you know that’s not my handwriting? You’ve never seen my handwriting before.”

And then he stiffened, because he knew how impertinent a question that was. And good things never followed impertinent questions.

“Indeed, Mr. Potter,” she said, and Harry couldn’t resist lifting his head to assess her expression. But instead of the expected anger, there was only a raised eyebrow on her face. “I simply recognize the handwriting of a dictation quill. I am not accusing you of cheating, I’m just asking why.”

“Oh.” Harry felt foolish. This wasn’t the Dursley’s. Why did he keep acting like it was?

Then he realizes McGonagall is still waiting for an answer, so he spits out some excuse of not being used to using a quill yet, which isn’t even a full lie. She smiles indulgently, gently reprimands him from doing so in the future, and sends him to lunch with instructions to eat well. Her worries are assuaged and her job is done, so she gives no more thought to Mr. Potter.

Harry leaves the class too preoccupied to be properly relieved. He does not eat well, as his teacher had instructed him. Instead, he skips lunch to hurriedly re-write his potions homework, which didn’t even have the benefit of being written with his dictation quill. He had paid an upper-year student to do it.

He hadn’t been paying the most attention that potions class, and it was clear some of those questions required reading the textbook. He assured himself it was only a temporary solution, but that was not the point.

The point was he was stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he have forgotten about handwriting? He knew different people wrote differently. He could tell there was a difference between Dudley’s and Aunt Petunia’s script. So why, then, had he been so stupid?

This line of thought continued all the way to the entrance of the potions classroom, where it was suddenly disturbed.

“Hey Potter, why the long face?” Harry looked up to see Draco Malfoy, the boy whose offer of friendship Harry had rejected. Malfoy’s sidekicks loomed alongside him menacingly.

Immediately, Harry felt his senses prickle forebodingly. Familiarly. He had been in this situation many times before, except the blonde had been heavy-set instead of rail-thin.

“It’s none of your business, Malfoy,” Harry grit out.

“Aww, someone’s getting pouty.” He looked expectantly at his cronies, and they laughed accordingly.

Harry was disgusted by the whole thing. He attempted to ignore them, but Malfoy kept on talking.

“Maybe ickle Potter is feeling homesick? Do you miss your parents, Potter?” His grey eyes widened mockingly. “Oh, that’s right, your parents are dead!”

Harry struggled not to hit the git.

“And good riddance too, especially for your mudblood of a mother. She deserved to die for sullying good blood—“

And then Harry no longer struggled to keep himself from hitting the git, because he already had.

His knuckles burned where he made impact with Malfoy’s chin, but it was no matter. He was too busy relishing in the cries of ‘it hurts, it hurts!’ and ‘owww!” Harry had never seen someone this affected by a punch, and Harry knew he didn’t punch very hard. Ha, who was the big baby now?

“What is the meaning of this?” Came a sharp voice from behind Harry, and all his glee evaporated.

It was Professor Snape.

The teacher who hated him.

Harry stood no chance.

“Potter punched me, Professor!” cried Malfoy.

“Let me see,” Snape commanded. He tilted Malfoy’s chin up, examining him, and said, “It will heal well enough on its own. The damage is not severe.”

Malfoy blushed, as if suddenly realizing how childishly he had been whining. Scrambling for something to say, he exclaimed, “W-well, he still punched me! And if you notice, I didn’t even do anything back.”

Snape, anger burning in his eyes, whipped his head to Harry. “And why is this, Mr. Potter?”

Harry knew from experience the question was a trap. It was clear to him already the Professor preferred the blonde-haired boy, and nothing Harry said would matter.

Besides, Harry felt uncomfortable telling a sob-story about his dead mother for simply a schoolyard fight. It would be obscene, almost manipulative sounding, even if he didn’t mean to be.

So he stayed quiet and waited for his punishment. Sometimes Hogwarts _was_ very much like the Dursley’s.

In Harry’s silence, Draco filled in, “He’s not saying anything, Professor, he knows he’s guilty. Isn’t he going to be expelled?”

_Expelled?_

“If only, Mr. Malfoy,” And the professor shot him a malevolent look.

Harry felt faint. Oh, why hadn’t he spoken up? Being expelled had never occurred to him. He had never been to school before to learn their rules and regulations. Was punching such a criminal offense?

Of course it was. Harry was just so corrupted he didn’t even realize it. Hadn’t the Dursley’s told him over and over what a delinquent he was? On some level, he had still wanted to reject it, so it crushed Harry a little to now see pretty convincing evidence to their claims.

Why did he have to punch Malfoy? He didn’t even remember his mother. Why couldn’t he have reigned in his—his—freaky impulses for just a second?

Now he was going to be sent away, sent back home. And after he had been taunted with the possibility of the wonderful place that was the wizarding world.

And when he was shut back up alone in his cupboard, the worst part would be knowing it was completely his fault.

“Three days at Hogwarts before earning a detention. It must be some kind of record,” Snape mocked. “This classroom, at seven tonight.”

At this point, a crowd had gathered in front of the potions classroom. It was time for class to start.

Harry thought he might have liked potions. He picked up a knife as Hermione, his partner, lay out the ingredients for today’s potion. He was skilled with a blade after all those years of cooking for the Dursley’s, and he was especially good at following instructions.

Not today, however. He could barely manage from cutting himself today. What did his grade in potions matter when he would be mopping the house for his aunt in a few days, never to see a classroom again?

Still, for Hermione’s sake, who he would now never get the chance to be friends with, he cut and measured precisely. He followed her directions (as he couldn’t read them from the board) and in every perfectly cut cube, there was an apology. _I’m sorry, Hermione, Ron, everyone. I failed_.

* * *

Severus smirked in dark satisfaction as he looked over his classroom. His instant dislike of the Potter boy had been vindicated today.

His eyes gazed over to the boy, who was letting his partner do all his thinking while he just cut. Merlin, the boy was lazy too. Severus wasn’t sure it could get any worse.

Severus had always had good instincts. Earlier in the year, he had been worried when mention of Potter caused him irrational bouts of irritation.

The irritation was no longer so irrational. Severus had seen for himself how arrogant the boy had been, arriving to class late and assaulting students without expecting any repercussions. He had seen the surprise on the boy’s face when punishment for his misbehavior was mentioned.

Severus slid around the room, observing the students work. Draco leaned over and murmured something evidently funny, as Crabbe began to snicker.

Severus held a soft spot for Draco, something unavoidable when you had helped raise a boy his entire life. He was aware his godson was no saint, though, and may not have been entirely innocent in the confrontation. But even when pressed for a reason, Potter had said nothing. Probably because he knew whatever Draco’s aggravation, it did not justify such an attack.

He smoothly stopped one of the kids from adding duck feathers, preventing the entire class from receiving a toxic splatter. Potter was hiding something too, Severus could tell. Was it the homework? There was something off about Potter’s work, though Severus couldn’t conclusively prove it.

He might have said the boy paid someone else to do his work if it weren’t too early in the school year for that to be reasonable.

Well, he would get down to the root of the boy’s troublemaking one day. In the meantime—

“Copy the directions on the board. Your homework is to study pages eight through fifteen in your textbook.”

He then noticed the boy simply sitting there, unmoving. “Are you illiterate, Potter,” he hissed, and the boy gratifyingly jumped. “Begin writing!”

The boy fumbled for his quill and began writing, strokes slow and unsure. Evidently the boy was still getting used to using quills, but Severus wouldn’t let that be an excuse for messy work. The homework Potter had turned in was extremely messy.

Severus was almost disappointed even, that Lily’s progeny had turned out to be such a despicable child.

Potter squinted at the board and continued to write. Merlin, that wasn’t even the homework part of the board. Was the boy to be slow too? It appeared the boy was nothing but a long list of faults.

Severus prowled away from the scene, disgusted.


	4. Morbid Humor

In contrast to the way he exited potions class last time, Harry padded quietly out the door. His housemates congealed into a mass of red and gold ties, rambunctious as they made their way to the Gryffindor dorms. But Harry did not follow them. Instead, he took a left and made his own way through the castle. Torches flared green, casting long shadows. Footsteps echoed off the stone floors from everywhere and nowhere.

Until, Harry realized, the only footsteps he could hear now were his own. Where had he gone? He wandered further around, but all the hallways looked the same. Dim corridor followed after dim corridor. Harry increasingly felt the sensation of being a mouse trapped in a maze.

Harry collasped against the wall, getting his back wet with the condensation that coated it, and sank to the ground. He wimpered, and the sound echoed chillingly. Did it even matter whether he got out or not? There was nothing for him out there. He could stay in here and...continue to be a mouse.

He would scamper around the dungeons, mapping new territory and adventuring along new paths. What were in the dungeons? Traps? Torture devices? Wonderfully horrible things beyond his imagination?

Harry gave a small smile and got up, deciding to fulfill his fantasy.

He would sometimes hear the echoes of voices and run away, not wanting to be caught. He was a mouse, after all. If he got caught, he would be thrown out and fed to the Dursley-cat.

A few hours later Harry realized a small plot hole in his story. His stomach was rumbling quite loudly. Not only was he hungry, but the noise would alert everyone to where he was, and stealth was very important as a mouse indeed.

Suddenly, Harry found himself in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit. What a coincidence that he should find himself in front of a picture of food right when he was hungry.

Harry sighed and ran his hand along the painted fruit. He really couldn’t hide away forever, but there—

Harry jumped back as the portrait suddenly swung open to reveal a secret entrance. Harry was left gaping at what was revealed.

Small, strange beings ran around the room, their large ears flapping around them wildly. Their frantic scrambling stopped, however, as soon as Harry came into view. The creatures all stared at Harry. Harry blushed.

“How can elves be helping Mister Potter?” one of them squeaked out.

Huh, Elves, Harry thought faintly. He hadn’t expected to discover this in the dungeons. The world he was in just kept on getting stranger and stranger.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the smell of food wafted over at that second, and Harry found himself asking, “Is-is there food?”

This seemingly simple question sent the elves into a fury of activity. “Yes, we is having food for Mister!” someone said, and he found himself at a table laden with enough food to feed him for a week.

“I don’t need this much food,” he protested.

“Is leftovers from dinner,” one of them said simply.

Huh. The Dursley’s never left this much food. Dudley and Vernon ate too much for that, not wanting to leave him too much.

But then something the elf said registered with him. “Dinner? Oh no, I’m gonna be late for my detention,” he said in distress. And all the weariness and anguish he had pushed away came flooding back into his consciousness.

Did it even matter whether he turned up to detention if he was to be expelled? But no, Snape would probably just find him using magic if he didn’t turn up. His days hidden as a mouse were over.

Harry gave a last despondent glance to the food before getting up. He made his way to the exit, but couldn’t help saying, “Save the food, please?”

He closed the portrait door behind him and trudged his way back to the potions classroom. He was no longer lost.

* * *

“Enter,” hissed a voice after Harry had knocked on the door to the potions classroom.

Harry had never been in a detention before. He wasn’t sure what one was, to be entirely frank.

Snape loomed menacingly from behind his desk. The classroom was dark and eerily quiet with just the two of them. Harry shifted from his position on the other side of the classroom.

The man beckoned him closer. Harry shuffled up to him. The Professor analyzed Harry coldly.

He spoke: “You are not here as a martyr. This is not a daring adventure, or an act of bravery or courage.

“You have committed a misdemeanor, and now you are here to be punished.”

Memories of Uncle Vernon’s punishments flashed through his mind. “Yes, sir,” Harry answered tiredly. He’d expected something of the sort. Best to have this over and done with. “Where do you want me?”

“At your desk.”

Harry walk to the desk and bent over. Uncle Vernon always started with spankings and ended with a thorough pummeling. He wondered how the professor punished. He probably wouldn’t be as undignified to punch him, as that seemed taboo in this world. But he might taunt him while—

“What are you doing, Potter?” Snape said impatiently.

Harry straightened abruptly as shame filled his face. He had made a mistake. Miscalculated.

He needed to cover his blunder. Well, the best lies were forged in truth. “Uh, I’m hungry. Stomach pang. Forgot to eat.”

“Taking food for granted, Potter? Well, if you forget to eat, you don’t deserve to,” Snape sniffed.

The Dursley’s would tend to agree. Why did so many people think he didn’t deserve food? Was it because it was true?

Harry slid into the desk chair and looked up at Snape, awaiting instruction. If Harry wasn’t going to be spanked, how else would he be punished?

Snape considered him for a moment too long, but then seem to mentally dismiss something.

“You will copy this line a hundred times on this parchment. The quill and parchment are spelled against cheating...”

Harry allowed his shoulders to relax as the Professor talked, reassured of the safety of his secret. The man hadn’t realized what Harry had been doing.

Harry shivered as he thought about how close he had been to exposure. One question would have been one question too many. He needed to keep suspicion off of himself and his home life.

It would be a mess if something were to happen now, right before Harry was to return home. Or worse, they would find out...and nothing would happen.

“Questions?” barked Snape, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. The man’s eyes dared him to ask one. But despite the foreboding look, Harry couldn’t keep in a small question.

“Sir...am I going to be expelled?”

“Expelled? Ha, I would hardly bother giving you detention if you were going to be expelled,” muttered Snape off-handedly before walking off.

It was a good thing his back was to Harry then, for he would have surely been suspicious at the blinding grin that appeared suddenly on Harry’s face.

Despite everything, Harry was being allowed to stay at Hogwarts? The warm feeling of profound relief spread throughout his chest, and it was all Harry could do to keep from laughing out.

And his punishment—it wasn’t really a punishment at all. Harry wondered how it could be for anyone. He smirked at Snape’s reaction if he knew Harry was thrilled to be able to practice writing his letters.

As if reading his thoughts, Snape growled at Harry to begin writing. Harry picked up his quill and started tracing shapes, smile still hidden on his face. Detention wasn’t all too bad.

* * *

Harry slid around the corner carefully, knowing it was only a few minutes till curfew. He blended into the dark as nothing more than a flickering shadow, creeping his way to his destination.

The promise of food in a kitchen made him determined to not get caught. If there was anything Harry hated, it was wasting food.

There was an undeniable thrill in disobedience, Harry had learned when he snuck a drink of water or snatched Dudley’s old homework at the Dursley’s. The adrenaline kept Harry on edge.

Which was why as he turned another corner, he fairly screamed when he hit something.

“Ah! H-Harry? Is that you?” It was Hermione, arms loaded with books. “Where are you going?”

“To the kitchens, to eat,” Harry answered automatically. Then cursed himself.

But Harry was not given long for self-flagellation, because soon a prefect appeared.

“I heard a scream. What’s going on here?” she asked sternly.

“We were just coming back from the library,” Harry answered before Hermione could open her mouth. “I thought I saw a rat or something...”

“Yes?” the girl prompted as Harry trailed off purposely.

“And, er, I screamed.” Harry hoped he sounded sufficiently small and embarrassed.

“Oh-ho,” the prefect said, and if she thought Harry looked shifty, she probably attributed it to embarrassment rather than dishonesty. “Well, be sure to get to your common rooms safely, then.”

“Yeah, we know the way,” Harry said quickly. He turned to his housemate. “Ready to work on our essays, Hermione?”

She looked conflicted. That would not do. Before she could say anything to their detriment, Harry grabbed her arm and dragged her from the scene.

When he deemed them far enough away from danger, Harry let her go and turned to the kitchens. However, this time Hermione was the one to grab him.

“What was that? she demanded. “You were lying through your teeth.”

“Yes, and now I’m going to eat with my teeth,” Harry said impatiently.

“Wh—don’t you feel the least bit bad?” she whispered. Her eyes were troubled. “You didn’t look guilty at all. How does a person lie so easily...”

And these words triggered Harry’s own fears and insecurities. An ugly black cloud of anger and embarrassment enveloped him, and he snatched his arm away from her grip. “You strut around thinking you’re perfect and better than everyone. And then you see like me, and you judge me for being worse than you.”

“N—“

Harry cut her off by turning away. “Well, news flash, I already know what I am. I don’t need you telling me I’m a freak, an awful boy. The question is whether you know how annoying and stuck up you are!”

Harry could hear her running away in the distance as he started to stomp his way to the kitchen. He wondered if he’d made her cry.

Dudley made other people cry all the time. Suddenly, food did not seem so appealing.

He had already committed two offenses today. Best not make it a third.

He really did not belong here.

But someone had decided keep him here anyway, so he had responsibilities to take care of. He trudged his way up to the common room, closed the curtains around his bed, and took out the charms and herbology homework he had neglected.

By the time he finished, Harry was looking at his homework with only one eye, because it took too much effort to keep them both open.

But Harry had to do what he had to do, no excuses. Some things just had to be done and sleep did not mean he did not have homework to do. What has to be done doesn’t suddenly not need to be done because of something that you can’t do...

* * *

Harry was most displeased to wake up with ink on the side of his face, but as his homework was mostly undamaged, he contented himself with a mild huff of annoyance.

The huff became a gasp as he realized the time.

He rushed to class, tucking his shirt in on the way. He had missed yet another meal, but his hunger pangs had subsided for now. Harry was grateful; being hungry on top of sleep deprivation was not pleasant.

As Flitwick lectures for class, something catches Harry attention. When class ends, Harry stays behind, hoping to ask the Professor about it.

“Mister Potter—what can I do for you?” the half-elf asked with unhidden curiosity.

“I, er...” Harry felt inexplicably embarrassed. He wanted to say it was nothing and get away. But no, on the chance that the teacher could or even would help him, his question was too important. “I heard you mention about a narration charm. Um, what does it do?”

“Why, It reads aloud a passage you choose when you use it.”

“Really? Can I learn it?”

“Of course, Mister Potter.” His eyes crinkled at Harry’s enthusiasm. “Why do you want to learn the charm?”

Harry skirted close to the truth. “It would make studying a bunch easier, I learn best by listening to stuff. And its a really cool charm too.”

An older student entered through the door of the classroom just then, surprising Harry. The professor turned to him and said, “Come to this classroom later today, at five, and I’ll teach you the charm. It’s always wonderful seeing a student so interested in learning. Now get on with your classes.”

“Yessir!” Harry enthused with poorly concealed excitement. It wouldn’t do to look to excited at learning something that simply read things aloud.

But Harry was ecstatic. Joyful beyond words. This charm, this wonderful beautiful amazing charm, changed everything.

Professor Sprout instructed him to focus in herbology class, and he almost got his hands eaten off.

Hand eaten off. By a _plant._ Magic was simply astounding.

Harry dopey grin followed him to lunch, where he ate to his heart’s content and then some.

He could feel Granger’s gaze from the side of his head, but he decided to ignore in favor of eating another helping of Shepherd’s Pie.

* * *

Severus stalked along the hall purposefully, wanting dearly to just get into his rooms and have a smoke. It was a vice from his muggle childhood he couldn’t give up, didn’t want to give up. It was one of the few respites in his god-forsaken life, and he’d be damned before he willingly let it go.

Even if it was “harmful to his lungs.” He didn’t plan on living long enough for that to become a problem anyway.

Severus slows as he notices a noise. It was getting louder as he walked. It sounded like...someone crying.

Merlin. His headache increased twofold. He narrowed the noise down to coming from one of the broom closets. Severus was of half a mind to simply ignore it and go on his way.

But he knows he won’t.

The child was in the dungeons, and most likely one of his own snakes. And he knew they received precious little comfort from others already.

He put his hand on the handle and sighed. He was tired, and if he was a little brusque while dealing with the brat, well, there was nothing for it. He pulled open the door.

And he let out a groan as he recognized the child crouching in the closet as Potter.

The boy had frozen in his crying as he saw Severus, and rightfully so. Severus found his annoyance growing, and his already pitiful patience evaporating.

At least, now he didn’t have to worry about being short with the child.

“Whatever is the matter now, Potter?” He scathed. “Why are you blubbering like a girl who’s missed her period.”

The boy glared up at him and snapped, “Well, as a child I was starved and beaten and my family never loved me. So if I’m a little sad, you know why.”

And even the dim light of the closet Severus could make out the hate in his eyes. Severus’s breath caught—those eyes, and such pain...

“Melin, what a morbid sense of humor,” Severus huffed, dismissing the strange foreboding. “Unfortunately, no one’s laughing. I should talk to Professor McGonagall about your inappropriate jokes, but frankly, I didn’t expect much better from you.”

”I know,” the boy murmured quietly, strangely resigned.

 _”I know”_? What sort of response was that?

Severus didn’t like it. Didn’t like how it make the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He advanced into the closet—

—and growled when the boy flinched away from him. What was wrong with the boy? What was wrong with himself? Potter’s responses shouldn’t be reminding him of things he’d rather have long forgotten.

This was Potter. There was a cheeky, arrogant brat somewhere in there.

“You have no reason to even be in the dungeons. Who do you think you are, crying in the closet like you have a reason to do so?“ he sneered. “So concerned with your own petty problems. There are persons out there in way worse situations who aren’t breaking down like weak, stupid—“

And finally, there was anger “I hate you!” the boy wailed.

Severus stooped and seized the boy by the arm, dragging him up. “And I, you,” he hissed. “Now get out and stop your sniveling.”

The boy dashes away without looking back. The small amount of pleasure derived from the encounter has already passed, and in its place was simply left a weariness. Severus is fairly sure he should be figuring out why the boy was crying, or at least inform someone of it.

But instead, he trudges back to his rooms, takes out a pack of cigarettes, and gets lost staring at the wall.


	5. Laid Bare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won’t be able to post the rest of the week, so you get this chapter early (though not as thoroughly proof-read). I think I’ll start speeding up the upload rate at this point anyway.  
> Enjoy :0  
> (Edit: excuse me for the false update. Accidentally clicked the wrong button)

The cool Scottish air burned his lungs as he sprinted. The drying tears on his cheeks itched, and Harry was sure if he were to stop, he’d be gasping for air.

Running all the way up from the dungeons was necessary, though. Otherwise, people would see his face and ask what was wrong.

And what wasn’t wrong? His life was a parody, some cruel joke brought upon by the sadistic imaginations of his creator.

Harry could see he was approaching the lake, and that there was a pathway where the lake and the forest met. He slowed as he entered it, finally allowing himself to relax in the relative privacy.

Harry was almost thankful that it was Snape who had found him. Anyone else would have asked too many questions. Snape, though, would be predisposed to hate instead of worry about Harry. The man was a bastard, but his cruel words _had_ shaken Harry out of his vulnerable state.

It was only then Harry realized. _Oh my gosh._ He had told. He had told someone the truth about his life, and they thought he was joking. Lying.

There was the small amount of expected disappointment. But above that, there was relief.

He had told, and nothing happened. So now he could put to rest niggling thoughts of possibilities, and painful hopes.

Besides, his encounter with Snape had led him to realize something.

Harry had noticed Snape’s blatant taunts and subtle digs about Harry’s assumed upbringing from the beginning. However, the assumptions came not only from Snape, but also from classmates and strangers who asked him what it was like to grow up famous, or teased him for no being used to doing work, or treated him like he were a celebrity.

He _was_ a celebrity. He was someone people looked up to, bizarre as the thought was.

And in the end, it would be disappointing if they found out about his upbringing. People might not outright deny it, but they would very easily believe something else because that’s what they wanted to believe.

Harry sighed. It had been only days at Hogwarts, and he had broken down crying twice. He wasn’t completely sure what had come upon him. Failures of the past and apprehensions of the future had suddenly overwhelmed him, whispering maliciously into his psyche.

It was the lack of sleep, he declared. There was nothing else wrong.

Though, he decided, maybe a new escape would not go remiss. He trotted among the trees, now become a stag. Light streamed through the tree leaves, selectively highlighting his imaginary glossy coat.

Contemplative quiet reigned in the forest, but it was far from silent. Breeze from the lake whispered through the trees. Birds serenaded each other above him in the canopy. His own muted footsteps pervaded the environment.

He leaped onto a stone, pretending as if he were as stately and solid as the rock beneath him. The wind pleasantly ruffled his hair as he faced the lake, and Harry let out a sigh of utter contentment.

And Harry’s daydream began to morph. “Harry!” a voice would call, and Harry would follow it to a man who’d look at him fondly. They would walk the trail together, enjoying the singular atmosphere of the forest.

 _A masculine scent, a fatherly touch, love_ —Harry's throat caught in his longing for these things.

The vision changed once more. Now, he was just a boy. A boy surrounded by trees and simplicity and life and death. And nothing more.

And this fantasy comforted Harry the most because it was the most realistic. There would never be anything more for Harry, but that was okay.

The sun was shining, after all.

Harry ambled back to Hogwarts in this reverie, where he didn’t have to worry about his illiteracy, or unfair cruelties, or insignificant things like these. He could simply exist, a presence among the world.

Harry found his way to Professor Flitwick, and as he occupied himself with learning the narration charm from his teacher, such notions were overshadowed and eventually forgotten in favor of reality.

* * *

Harry pondered the doors he currently stood in front of. He had noticed a direct negative correlation between his entrance of these doors and his mental well-being.

Harry weakly hoped the pattern would not continue today, but he had the insidious feeling that something unpleasant was doomed to happen. Something always happened; it was potions class with Professor Snape.

Harry sighed and went through his personal fiery gates before he was accused of tardiness once more.

Harry idly wondered whether Snape would hold Harry’s recent breakdown over him or not. Then Snape bangs open the classroom door and Harry’s soul is nearly surprised out of his body.

“Fifteen points for yelling, Mister Potter,” says Snape as he glides into the classroom. And Harry is not given even a moment to recover from his fright before he is given another one. “You will be taking a pop quiz today. Quills out.”

Harry’s stomach drops. Snape continues to dictate instructions. Sweaty hands mar the parchment handed to him.

He is not prepared for this.

Harry reads it, and is encountered with the first problem of having to write his name. He had never learned to write his name. Why hadn’t he bothered to at least learn his own name?

“Stop dithering, Potter!”

He cannot avoid it.

So, like a man resigned to the gallows, Harry begins to write.

* * *

Severus reckons he can feel Potter’s panic from the other side of the room. Obviously, the boy hadn’t studied the pages he had assigned for reading. Typical.

He snaps at Potter to get writing and derives satisfaction from seeing that the boy is near tears. Surprising. Does he actually care something for his grades? Perhaps there is hope for him yet.

Severus snorts and takes five points from the Gryffindor who just spilled ink on his quiz. Severus would be accused of becoming an optimist with thoughts like that. Such thoughts were delusional.

Severus is proven right when the students line up to hand in their parchments, and one glance at Potter’s page renders it unintelligible.

He almost crushes it in his hand in anger, but instead, he lets out a threatening command: “Potter...stay behind.”

His housemates look at him sympathetically. The boy is not surprised. He looks as if he’d expected this.

 _Mocking brat!_ As soon as the last other student clears out the room, Severus magically slams the doors shut. Wordlessly.

Potter’s facade of calm does little to hide his underlying anxiety. _And afraid he should rightfully be,_ thinks Severus darkly.

Irritation boiling dangerously in his stomach, Severus stalks up to the desk at which Potter is sitting. He, annoyingly, flinches.

“Where are we, Potter?” Severus asks blandly as he takes a seat by the boy.

He looks confused; the question was not what he expected. “H-Hogwarts,” he answers, clearly taken off guard.

“More specifically?” prods Severus.

“A classroom. The potion’s classroom.” Potter answers a little more boldly.

“So you are not confused as to our location?”

“Um...”

“If so, then why are you acting as if you‘re in St. Mungo’s mentally ill department?”

The boy freezes in his chair. For Severus’s mild demeanor does nothing to hide the underlying malice radiating from him.

He slams the cursed paper onto the desk in front of the child, all pretenses now dissolved. “You think this is funny, boy? This, imbecilic prank?”

Strangely, indignation flashes in Potter’s eyes. But it is gone quickly as he boasts, “Yeah, I am playing a joke on you, because I hate potions, and, I think you’re the worst teacher and a big bully!”

“I will not tolerate such disrespect,” he hisses. The child was more arrogant and impertinent than he had thought. For a moment, visions of showing the spoiled boy his place enticed Severus.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to restrain the boy against the desk and give him a good thrashing. Merlin knew Severus had received his fair share of those as a child.

But as Severus glowered at the little irritant, he felt something was off about the situation.

And, unfortunately, he’d always had good instincts.

Why did the boy seem to perk up at his accusation, accepting it eagerly? Almost, desperately? Could the boy be hiding something different?

Severus shook his head. It was an illogical, errant thought. It was the spawn of James Potter; it made the most sense for this to be a prank. What would the boy possibly be hiding with scribbles?

Severus gets up in agitation. The boy flinches once more beside him. It bothers Snape—it reminds him too much of himself. “Stop that, stop flinching. Why do you keep on flinching?”

“Well, you’re a scary person,” the boy shoots back, but he has gone oddly white.

His errant thought persists in his mind.

Snape recalls how the child, rather than looking smug, was nearly in tears while taking the quiz. That was not the cocky behavior of one playing a joke.

Severus flourishes his wand, and the quiz becomes clean. He slides it to the boy, who is sitting tensely in his seat.

“Complete the quiz again. Now,” Severus instructed.

“No, I—I have class,” he flusters. He sits up in a hurry, disturbing his chair, and fairly runs to the door. But Severus knows it is locked.

The boy looks back at him with panicked eyes. Severus arches an eyebrow and states, “Potions is your last class of the day. There is nowhere else you need to be.”

Potter was hiding something.

Severus wasn’t sure what it was yet. But maybe the boy having trouble with school, and the scribbling was his way of avoiding the fact. Severus recognized the thought process; one can’t fail if one doesn’t try.

“Come here and complete the quiz—seriously,” demands Severus. He is now starting to believe the boy’s ignorance is from laziness. Potter may have never been disciplined to study under Petunia, but Severus would not spoil the boy so.

“No, I-I won’t,” he protested with a tremble in his voice.

“You didn’t even read the assigned pages,” accused Severus in displeasure.

“Yeah, y-you’re right, I didn’t! I didn’t even glance through them! What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to make you finish the quiz,” drawls Severus silky as he gazes at the child in dark amusement. Manipulation. From the Gryffindor golden boy. Poorly done, but the boy must be desperate if he is attempting to distract Severus so.

“I won’t do it.”

“Mister Potter—“

“I won’t!”

Merlin, the boy was audacious!

But then he watches as the boy rushes to the door and rattles the doorknob like a man possessed. “I won’t, I won’t I WON’T!” he yells. He suddenly stops moving, and Severus gets a strange feeling in his stomach. “Please, let me out.”

And the quiet request bring Severus up short. Something was wrong, off. The brat was really getting aggravated, and over...nothing?

This wasn’t working. He had to change his approach. Adjusting to the boy’s temperament, he attempts for gentle as he says, “Just write something down.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” the child whispers, seemingly to himself. “I can’t...”

That was new. “You...can’t?” Whatever did that mean? “Stop being impossible, boy,” Severus says roughly. Read the problem aloud to me.”

“I can’t,” Harry repeats, looking at him with hollow eyes.

And an horrific notion enters in Snape’s mind. It was impossible. It was another errant, illogical thought. But didn’t his last strange thought turn out to be true? And so he blurts out his thought before he can think about it.

“You can’t...read?”

Potter looks at him with solemn eyes, all attempts at escape abandoned. Severus cannot breathe.

“Please sir,” the boy pleads, “don’t tell anyone else.”

Severus is in no position to consider the request. He simply gapes at the boy in disbelief as his mind whirls in confusion.

He pushes the quiz still on the desk towards the boy, though he is on the other side of the room. “Read the first question. Do you know what first question says? You can’t read it? Any of it?” Severus states inanely. He is being redundant.

But he is having trouble comprehending the fact the boy does not understand a single word on the page. Severus literally does not remember a time when he did not know how to read. Surely this is some bizarre misunderstanding.

“Call me a freak, a retard, whatever you want. Just don’t let anyone else know.”

Severus can feel emanating in waves the young child’s sheer determination to keep his secret intact. Snape stares at wonder at this fierce child, who would do anything to protect himself, and this he understands. When he was a child he would have done the same.

And the boy who, in some alternate universe, could’ve been his son felt the primal need to protect himself from Severus.

He had never felt more like his bastard of a father.

“Do your relatives beat you? Starve you? Abuse you?” He asks, stone-faced.

The boy turns wide eyes to him and seems to make a gambit. In an effort to obviously please him, he says, “Yeah, they do all that and more. They lock me in a cupboard, and, and, call me worthless and use me to do all their chores.”

It wretches Snape to know Potter had such a twisted view of him that the boy actually believed Severus would be happy to hear those things.

He probably put Severus in the same category as his god-forsaken relatives. Severus attempts to ward off a stabbing pain in his chest.

But as silence reigns, Potter’s eyes harden. “Sir, if you promise to keep quiet, I can...”

The boy drops to his knees and lays a hand on Severus’s thigh.

He jerks away in horror, action finally coming out in anger. “I teach in a school of children, and you think I would—“ he breaks off, misdirected fury suddenly sucked out of him.

He stares at this waif of a child, a child he had greatly misjudged, and feels more out of depth than he ever has in his 30 years.


	6. Deals with the Devil

Harry would have groaned if he weren’t too wound up to do so. He knew his proposition had been a risk, a last desperate attempt at control. But now that he had offended the man, he’s even further away from his goal.

What did Snape want? Although the man had seemingly matched in opinion with his relatives on Harry’s worthlessness, he hadn’t exactly seemed satisfied or happy when he had learned of Harry’s mistreatment.

“So, you really, truly can’t read?” the professor asks him once again.

“I can read some,” Harry replies, attempting to keep the petulance out of his voice. “And I have a really good memory.”

There was really no use in lying to the man anymore. The aim now was to keep him from telling.

Harry could imagine Snape using his newly acquired knowledge to add to his taunts in class. _It’s much more dire than just taunting_ Harry reminds himself bleakly.

Things would change once everyone knew the dirty truth. He would no longer be able to live life in pretend normalcy. _Condescending tones, disgusted glances, cruel gossip._

His fists tightened. He might not even experience that if he were sent away from Hogwarts—sent back to the Dursley’s—on the account of his delinquency.

No. There was no way Harry’s secret was escaping this room.

Snape clears his throat and started talking, “I shall have to inform the staff—“

“No!” Harry shrieks, the word coming out like a war cry. “If you do that, I’ll tell everyone you took advantage of me.”

He glares at his teacher unrepentantly. If he can’t compromise with the man, he would have to fight him.

And a fight is what Harry expects. But when Snape opens his mouth, instead of an outraged retort he says, “I am sorry. I am truly regretful for the way I acted towards you.”

 _What?_ “I don’t believe you,” Harry says in outright disbelief. Was this just one of the man’s mind games?

“You don’t have to,” the professor growls. “It won’t change what I’m about to to to your predator of an uncle—“

“No! Uncle Vernon just talks about it sometimes, says I should be grateful he’s kept me safe from...”

“Keeping you safe? ‘starved and beaten as a child’ and ‘my family never loved me’—that’s what your uncle considers safe?”

Harry was properly discomforted now. Aside from the embarrassing reference to maudlin rot he had spouted, Harry had no idea what the man’s motivations were.

And he was scared, because that could be dangerous.

“What do you want?” Harry asked the professor bluntly.

Harry couldn’t pinpoint it, but Snape’s stance seemed to change at the question as if realizing something. He eyed Harry with a considering gleam. “What I want...is to teach you to read.”

“What? Why?” Harry asked incredulously. He tried and failed to crush his rising excitement at the words “teach you to read.”

“But I will only do so, if you keep your insinuations to yourself...and I get to tell everyone else of your illiteracy.”

There it was. So that’s what the man wanted in return. A chance to gossip to the rest of the _entire school_ —

“No,” Harry spits out. Damn, but the man must have seen how desperately Harry wished he could read, and knew how much it hurt Harry to refuse the offer.

But what good would reading and writing be if he lost all chance at fitting into this world?

Snape didn’t even hesitate in the face of Harry’s refusal “Perhaps just the staff, then?” he countered.

After the possibility of the whole school knowing of his illiteracy, just the staff knowing seemed like nothing. He felt a pang as he thought of losing their good regard, but if Harry was honest with himself, it was almost inevitable they’d find out anyway. This way, at least, Harry could control when he disappointed them.

And Harry still so desperately wanted to read.

The man was smirking, and despite feeling as if he were making a grave mistake, Harry said, “I accept, only as long as you swear them to secrecy!”

Snape’s smirk grew, as did Harry’s uneasiness. “Deal.”

* * *

The staff expressed undisguised curiosity about the impromptu meeting they were in. Somehow, though, everyone could sense the occasion was not a joyful one.

Perhaps it was the expression Dumbledore held. Severus knew the look was reflected in his own face.

The headmaster gazed upon the crowd and said, “We have an important announcement to make.”

Severus gritted his teeth, uncomfortable with imparting such sensitive information with so many of his colleagues. This is something Albus, with his reassuring smiles and comforting demeanor, should do. But he stuck to the plan the Headmaster had insisted on and announced, “Yes, earlier today, I made a most unfortunate discovery. Harry Potter is illiterate.”

Bafflingly, a few unsure chuckles circled around the staff. Minerva made a noise of offense and shouted, “Professor Snape! That is not an appropriate joke.”

Severus realized his mistake. Of course they wouldn’t take the statement at face value, especially delivered from someone as sarcastic as him.

“Minerva, lower your hackles. It was not an insult. I am being perfectly serious. It appears...Potter was never taught to read or write.”

“Headmaster! You should control you employees.” But there was an unsure emotion in her face.

“No, Severus is sharing with you the honest truth.”

“Oh my,” muttered Fillus suddenly with a realizing look on his face. “Earlier this week Mister Potter asked me to teach him a narration charm. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but he had seemed unusually anxious to learn it.”

“His handwriting is uncommonly neat, almost not like handwriting at all,” noted another shrewdly.

Minerva fell back down to her seat, face going white. “He’s been using a dictation quill. I asked the boy about it, and he claimed it was because he had trouble writing with a quill.”

“No, he more has trouble writing in general,” Severus sneered.

“Yes, and it’s no joking matter,” Minerva hissed pointedly. She turned to Dumbledore. “What are we going to do?”

“Ah, I believe that answer lies once again with Severus.”

Severus glared at the old man, resentful of the forced communication. “I have taken it upon myself to teach the boy reading and writing.”

Minerva and a few others made sounds of protest at the same time. “You, Severus? Are you quite sure that is a good idea?”

“No, Severus has the right idea,” chimed Ponama unexpectedly. “If the situation’s what I’m beginning to think it is, overwhelming kindness would do nothing but put Harry on edge. Severus’s sternness is what the child needs.” She turned her eyes directly to him, “I trust you, Severus.”

Bleeding-heart Hufflepuffs. He hadn’t even thought of that. He just considered it his penance to teach the boy.

Yet, as he walked to the library to prepare a lesson for the boy, his heart warmed at being thought of as right for the boy, at being right for anybody.

Severus felt a renewed responsibility, and his desire to teach the boy grew. He near burst open the doors to the library, and ignoring Pince’s indignant rants, he made his way towards the stacks.

* * *

Severus watched as Potter skulked his way into Severus’s office. Yesterday, he had instructed the boy to tell others he was attending a detention. And to his credit, he had on a fairly convincing mask of moodiness and trepidation.

Severus was sure, however, that not all of the emotion was an act.

The boy had held no qualms about coercing Severus. Coercing _Severus_. Severus was torn between being impressed, angry, and surprised. No doubt the child was fearing retribution for his audacity.

Severus had not been the most neutral teacher toward him in the past week, and he had not done anything yet to refute the boy’s viewpoint. But that would change now.

Then Severus realized he had no idea how to accomplish that change.

Jokes? Jokes were good, right?

“Mister Potter. On-time for once, I see.”

“Oh, shut the hell up.”

“Language. Five points from Gryffindor. Take care to remember I am your Professor.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He bristled. “And I am using my own personal time to teach you this. Be thankful that I am doing anything for you at all.”

“Ungrateful brat,” the child muttered.

“What?”

“Ungrateful brat. That’s all you have to say to make it an authentic Dursley’s experience.”

Severus was stricken. What had just happened? He had trouble processing the events, as if his mind were lagging behind his body. How could everything have gone so wrong so quickly?

“The comment, about your timely arrival,” Severus said stiffly, “It was an attempt at, ah, levity.”

“Oh,” the boy said, then fell quiet.

Severus couldn’t bring himself to break his gaze with the jar of pickled lizards’ tails on the shelf. So he was surprised when he felt a pat on his forearm.

“Er, it, that is, the joke, it‘s kinda funny now that I know it was a joke.” the boy looked up at him and gave Severus a strange, contoured version of a reassuring smile.

He felt choked. A foreign sensation caused his heart to beat faster and his palms to sweat.

Maybe, this could work?

And before he wondered too long on when he had started to hope for that so badly, he gruffed out directions to the boy and allowed the moment to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, the story ended here with a fluffy time skip to the future. But it felt rushed and unnatural, so I added the part where Harry and Snape make a deal to extend the story a bit. I tend to be a succinct writer, so it was a bit difficult. I hope you readers enjoyed it.


	7. Blessed Assurance

Harry bounded down the stairs from his dorm into the Gryffindor common room, grateful for the fact it was the weekend.

A week had gone by since the “Snape encounter,” and although it took much pressure off of him not having to hide his illiteracy from his teachers this week, it was still exhausting to go from class to class and hide his disability from his classmates. So Harry was very appreciative of the free time afforded to him now.

Harry paused, though, when he saw Hermione and Ron sitting in the common room. The pair had been rather antagonistic towards him the past week.

That they were a pair at all was due to Harry, he gathered. He was illiterate, not blind. It didn’t take a great leap of logic to observe the cool glares, smirks, and blatant rudeness and surmise they had bonded over their mutual dislike of him.

He sighed. The dislike was deserved. It was, in fact, the very result he had been aiming for. Yet it hurt to see that he‘d alienated people he had held in such esteem.

Harry thought. The teachers had learned of his problem, yet they had been bafflingly decent to him the past week. Maybe, some people knowing of his problem wouldn’t hurt.

He was undecided. It might not hurt, but it would be an unnecessary risk. He took a reluctant step away from the duo.

Ah, but they might be able to help him hide his disability from other classmates. They could be useful, he reasoned. So maybe he could make friends!

Justification in mind, he marched enthusiastically towards Ron and Hermione.

Hermione looked up first, with a...was that distress in her eyes?

Ron, noticing his companions diverted attention, followed Hermione’s gaze to rest on Harry. His face, too, did not hold a pleasant emotion.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

Harry told himself to reign in his flare of anger, but some of it escaped as he gritted through his teeth, “I came here to say—that is, I’m...”

Harry was confused. Why was he finding it so hard to apologize? It was just twosimple words.

Yet, he couldn’t deny the visceral aversion he had to the action, as if a dark apprehension were pressing down on his very soul.

Perhaps he didn’t need to outright apologize, just act friendly. He accepted the idea as it sent a flood of relief through him.

Then he realized he had no idea how to act friendly.

Jokes? Jokes were good, right?

“What are you guys doing? Are you boyfriend and girlfriend now?” He chuckled uneasily. “You know, cuz you guys spend a lot of time together...”

“Really? That’s the worst insult you could think of?” Ron replied scathingly.

“Hey, that wasn’t an insult! It was a joke!”

“Didn’t sound like a joke,” Hermione muttered. “Come on, Ron, let’s go. Ignoring is the best way to deal with a bully,” she said pointedly.

“Bully?” Harry fumed, no longer bothering to hide his anger. “I was trying to make friends, though I don’t know why anymore.”

“Why would I want to be friends with a self-proclaimed ‘delinquent’?”

“Yeah, I don’t care if you’re the ruddy boy-who-lived. Just cuz you’re famous doesn’t mean you’re good,” Ron stated. “How’d you even get into Gryffindor?”

“Hey, what are you guys saying? You’re being mean!” squeaked another boy standing behind a couch.

“He was mean to us first!” argued Ron. “Just how long have you been standing there?”

“I—L-long enough, long enough to tell, to tell—“

“Let’s go, Ron,” commanded Hermione, interrupting the stuttering boy.

And with a noise of agreement, Ron and Hermione walked off, noses held in the air.

Tearing his eyes from the infuriating couple, he turned to his other housemate.

The expression on his face was very much at odds with his bold actions. It was clear he had been scared out of his wits, which made Harry appreciate his interference all the more.

“Thank you,” Harry intoned earnestly.

The boy shot his head up from his fidgeting hands in surprise. “Oh! You are welcome.” His demeanor turned despondent. “I didn’t even finish my last sentence. I‘m such a wimp.”

“No you’re not!” Harry protested, protective of his unlikely fr...er, protector. “That was the nicest thing anyone’s done for me,” he admitted.

“Really?” the boy said, eyeing him curiously. He held out his hand. “I’m Neville Longbottom.”

Harry knew he might have said too much, but at the moment, in the midst of the other boy’s kindness, he was in a strangely confessing mood. “I’m Harry Potter,” he introduced.

“Yeah, I know,” replied the other boy, looking vaguely intimidated. “Were you going somewhere?”

“Oh no,” Harry groaned. “I’m gonna be late for my meeting with, er, the headmaster.”

“The headmaster?”

“Yeah, boy-who-lived stuff, ya know?” Harry bluffed. Neville seemed to relax at the explanation.

Harry bid the other boy goodbye and made his way to the headmaster’s office. Upon reaching the gargoyle, he gave it the password and walked up the rotating staircase.

“Harry, my dear boy. How are you?” greeted the Headmaster jovially.

“Good,” Harry answered distractedly, realizing a moment later that his answer was in reality quite far from the truth. He didn’t correct his response, though.

Headmaster Dumbledore was not alone. “Potter,” commanded Snape. “Let us go.”

Tea with the headmaster was the cover story he and Snape had concocted for their special lessons. They had met up several times this week already. Although Harry was excited to learn the subject matter, he was wary of the source it was coming from. Snape hadn’t done anything yet, but it most likely was only a matter of time.

Over the course of the week, however, Harry had, if not exactly grown comfortable, learned what to expect from the man. And he had been shockingly decent.

Harry was torn between suspicion and relief. Was the man simply content with what he had gotten so far? Or was he biding his time?

Harry followed Snape through the fireplace and whirled away to Snape’s office.

As soon as he appeared behind the man, Snape commanded him to take out a parchment and paper, not wasting a moment.

Harry muttered a ‘yes sir’ and flopped into his seat. They always started like this, with Harry tracing his letters. He dipped his quill into his inkwell and started with a long stroke for an uppercase A. Harry was sick of the letters. He was bloody sick of it all.

“What is your problem?” Snape asked sharply.

“What?”

“If you’re getting bored of learning how to write...”

It was then Harry realized his haphazard strokes had splattered ink all over his parchment.

“No, sir,” Harry said quickly. He didn’t want Professor Snape to think he was ungrateful, lest the man stop teaching him. “It’s not the tracing, it’s something else.”

Harry turned back to his work and attempted to put a smile on his face.

“Something else?” Snape pauses for a beat “And, ah, what would this ‘something else’ be?”

Harry stares at the man as if he were from another planet. “It’s nothing important.”

“It’s pretty important if it visibly affects your performance,” Snape shoots back.

And damn, the man was right. It was important: important enough that Harry didn’t want Snape knowing about it.

But the professor was waiting for an answer with a strange gleam in his eye, and Harry knew it would simply draw more attention if he hesitated any longer.

Attempting to sound nonchalant, Harry says, “Just some kids teasing me, that’s all.”

“Which kids?” Snape says in a tone that suggests it would be easier to draw water from a rock.

“It doesn’t matter.” It’s none of your business! he wanted to scream instead. He wanted to scream and shout and shake the man until he stopped this strange, baffling concern for Harry.

But why would be concerned for Harry? Weren’t people supposed to be selfish and self-centered?

“It may not matter to you,” the man said dubiously, “but...I’d still like to know.”

Harry didn’t want to talk, about it, didn’t see the need to do so. It was silly and small, and Harry could probably deal with the problem quicker and better himself without bothering anyone else.

Yet, he didn’t want to take the man’s concern and throw it back at his feet. What if he went back to hating Harry? He didn’t want to appear rude and ungrateful.

“Ron and Hermione,” he said at last. “I was trying to be friends with them, but, uh. They didn’t want to be friends with me,” he finished lamely.

“Why not?” Snape replied with an obvious edge in his voice.

The anger wasn’t aimed at him, but Harry wanted to shrink into his chair nonetheless. “Er, they were saying—I mean I said it first though—that I was a, they said ‘delinquent’ and ‘bully.’”

“They said that? To you?”

“Yessir,” Harry confirmed, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“Well, then maybe there should be certain...consequences...”

“Sir?”

“Do not worry about it,” the professor dismissed. He shared a conspiratorial smirk with Harry that made his heart race. “You’ll know when it happens.”

Harry blinked dazedly. Then let out a small smile despite himself.

“Very well then, sir,” he replied, a faint, cautious admiration glowing within him.

He focused back onto his lines, yet Professor Snape continued talking: “They were beneath being your friends anyway. Most dunderheads in this school are. You don’t need friends like them.”

“Y-yeah, you’re right. If people aren’t my friends, it’s because I don’t want them to be.” he said haughtily. Yet it was without true emotion.

For he thought of Neville. The boy with precious bravery and soft hands. A boy who Harry thought was worth being friends with.

But apparently Snape didn’t.

(What if Neville didn’t want to be friends with Harry like Ron and Hermione didn’t? What if Harry weren’t good enough, too awkward, too weird, too—)

Maybe what Snape said had some merit. Maybe Harry didn’t need friends. They just disappointed you.

So maybe what Snape said had some merit. But, Harry didn’t think he’d be sharing his worries with the man again.

* * *

“I am very disappointed in you, Severus,” chided the headmaster in his gentlest tones.

It was like a slap to the face.

“It was only detention,” Severus argued. “And if I set up the circumstances to their detention, well, the brats still deserved it, if for a different reason.”

Albus Dumbledore sat in the Headmaster’s office, looking across his desk to Severus with somber eyes.

He had no right to look like that. Severus had been petty and vindictive with students plenty of times before. He could admit it.

So why was it only now Albus decided to reprimand him? What was different about this time?

What had Severus done to be a disappointment?

“That reason was not reason enough to sabotage students’ potion,” Albus stated.

But there had been such a delighted light in Harry’s eyes as the potion exploded. “You must know I did it for Potter. Those kids had been bullying him.” Severus turned his head to the side, expecting the conversation to end now that he had explained his motivations. No doubt the Headmaster would be jumping for joy at this apparent evidence that he cared for the boy.

But Albus did not dismiss him. Instead, the headmaster leaned forward. “And that is why I called you up. I may have ignored it if you did it for yourself to random students.”

“What? How is that better?”

“I know you don’t wish any true harm on these kids, and those students may have forgotten about it within a fortnight. But you did it for Harry. And Harry will see that and learn from it. Keep in mind what you are teaching Harry with such actions.

“Keep in mind that you are a role model to Harry, now.”

And with that, he was finally dismissed from Albus’s presence.

But not his words. As Severus strode along the halls of Hogwarts, what the Headmaster had said stuck in his mind.

A role model? No sane child would take me as a role model.

After all, he had lived a life of darkness and hate and mistakes. A life he would wish on no child, filled with pain and anguish.

If someone were to take him as a role model...okay, so perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to hold back on the revenge in front of Harry, just in case.

Severus followed that vein of thought to the other thing he had said to Harry. And wanted to slap his forehead.

He had practically advised the child to make no friends. That, Severus knew for a fact, was not a good idea. Even Severus had had one friend as a child. And everything had gone to hell when he had lost her.

This wasn’t about him though. It was about Harry, and what Severus could do for him.

Severus stopped walking as a genius idea clicked in his mind. He smirked and continued walking. Yes, that would work very well.

* * *

It was Wednesday evening, and Harry Potter sat slumped on the floor of the girls’ bathroom talking to himself.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Myrtle may be a ghost, but she was definitely a person.

“I just can’t believe sabotaged our potion!” Harry vented.

“I know! It’s so unfair,” Myrtle agreed. Paused. “But didn’t he do the same thing to another boy and girl?”

“It was a lot funnier when he did it to Hermione and Ron,” he muttered. Hmm, maybe he owed the kids an apology for laughing at their plight before.

Myrtle did a flip in the air and stared at Harry with wide eyes. “Didn’t you expect it to happen to you too, then?

“Yeah, I should have. I don’t know why I’m surprised he did.”

“Maybe you were beginning to like him,” she replied simply.

And wasn’t that an uncomfortable thought? Harry squirmed on the cold floor, though not because of the cold.

“Uh, well it looks like I got to get going to my detention. See you later Myrtle bye!”

“No, don’t go! Oh, everyone always leaves Moaning Myrtle alone. Who actually likes little ole’ me? No one! That’s who...”

His smile at the ghost’s melodramatics faded as he came closer to his destination.

He practically scowls as he spots his detention mate, Tracey Davis, waiting outside the potion’s classroom.

Harry wasn’t that dumb. He could tell this whole thing had been set-up so that he could better apply the advice Snape had given him.

It was stupid, though. Why did Snape want him talking to a Slytherin, and a girl to boot?

This whole thing was stupid. Harry wanted to kick Snape, and then kick the nearest person for good measure (which conveniently happened to be the girl).

Davis eyes his fierce frown, then deliberately turns away and faces the door.

“Come in,” finally booms a voice from inside.

She holds open the door for him. He does not acknowledge it with as much as a glance.

Narrowed eyes and a thoughtful hm. Harry pays it no mind as Snape begins dictating instructions.

“You’ll be cleaning cauldrons while I grade at my desk,” he says, gesturing to two opposite sides of the room. “Soap is here. Scrubber is here. Now put on your gloves.”

“Yes, sir,” they recited in unison.

“You may talk quietly if you wish.” Remember what I told you Snape’s eyes conveyed.

Then he walked away, leaving Harry and the Slytherin alone.

“Let’s just get this over with. You scrub, I rinse.”

For a moment Davis looked like she was going to argue, but she just shrugged her arms in compliance and reached for the scrubber.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, before Davis cleared her throat. “So, you’re Harry Potter. Half-blood, right?”

Harry felt a twinge of annoyance. A bit defensively, he huffed, “Yeah, I am. So?”

Davis gave him a wary glance. “Ah, nothing.” She shifted, and they returned to silence.

Harry winced as he accidentally flicked water onto himself. Sighing, stood back and stretched, stealing a brief look at the girl next to him.

And then, taken by a strange impulse, he flicked water at her too.

Davis spun toward him with a start. When he says nothing, she turns back to the sink and continues scrubbing.

A little later, Harry surreptitiously flicks water at her again.

When he does it a third time, the Slytherin sighs. “What do you plan to gain from this?”

“I-aren’t you mad?”

She frowns at him disapprovingly, and Harry tries to tamper down the flash of shame he feels. “The water will dry. I’m not going to get angry over someone—something so insignificant.” She gives him a purposefully bland look.

“Hey!” Harry protests in offense, sensing the undertones. “Well, I didn’t like the way you said half-blood. What are you, some pretentious pureblood? Like Malfoy?”

“Not all purebloods are the same,” she corrects quietly. Hesitates, grits her teeth, and scrubs harder “And no, I’m a muggle-born.”

“What? But you’re Slytherin! I thought—“

“Yeah, a lot of people think that. Because it’s not safe for muggle-borns to be in Slytherin. That’s why I’ve told everyone else I‘m a half-blood. I don’t know why Professor Snape...”

“Professor Snape?”

“Yeah, he wanted me to tell you the truth.”

“Oh. Huh. Why?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, flinging water in the air with her hands. “You’re Harry Potter, famous and mysterious and from one of the oldest wizarding bloodlines, and I’m just some muggle-born girl.”

“I—er—“

“I just miss home. It’s been difficult fitting in.”

Harry looked at Davis, who was letting the water run over her hands. “It’s been difficult for me to fit in too.”

“Huh? How? You’re—“

“Yeah yeah, you just said. But, you know, I didn’t even know that until a few weeks ago.”

“Really?” Davis said.

“Yeah, I grew up with my aunt and uncle, who are muggles. So I’m more kinda like you.”

“Oh. That’s...somewhat comforting. If Harry Potter, icon of the Wizarding World is lonely at Hogwarts, that makes me feel much better about myself.”

“Hey! I’m not—“ Harry swallowed the lie before he could say it.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to offend you. Just, it’s been hard. I’ve been trying to be nicer than I already am and stuff. I need all the friends I can get.”

“I...can be your friend.”

The girl gives him a skeptical look.

“Oh, uh...sorry. I was annoyed at Snape earlier. It doesn’t excuse me I know, and if you don’t want to be my friend it’s perfectly fine. I get it, I’m not—just, never mind,” Harry finally finishes in a small voice. He was awful at apologizing.

“No, no, I‘d like to be friends,” Davis hurries to assure him, patting his shoulder. “I’m sorry too. I guess I was a little mad at you earlier. But it’s all good now. Please, call me Tracey.”

Harry let himself bask in the warm smile of the girl. The foreign feeling of making a friend fills his heart, and he smiles back.

“Then you can call me Harry. Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

* * *

A soft blanket of snow-covered Hogwarts, protecting her from the nighttime wind and keeping her inhabitants warm. Particularly the two currently burrowed deep in the dungeons.

Severus smirked as Harry attempted to reach the letters in his outstretched hands.

“C’mon! It’s Christmas Eve! Just let me have them!” Harry huffed between jumps.

“No.”

“Profeeeesoooor! C’mon, I just want to see how much of them I can read.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes!”

Severus chuckled, a sound that had become increasingly familiar in the past few months.

He sat on the sofa, and Harry followed quickly, bouncing onto it. Severus handed Harry one of the letters and looked at him expectedly.

Harry focuses on the writing on the envelope “Hmm, this one is from Tracey. M, e, r, r—does that say Merry Christmas?”

“Yes it does.” The smallest bit of approval seeped through his voice.

Harry brightened, looking at Severus like he was the greatest person in the world, and Severus’s breath caught.

Harry scooted closer, and Severus moved to hand Harry the letter from Neville.

But the boy throws his legs over Severus’s lap and clings to his torso.

Severus stares at the child in bewilderment and also a little wariness, recalling against his will...

“I’m not—it’s—“ Harry glances up and goes back to determinedly staring at his arm, “I just wondered how a father’s touch would feel like.”

Severus goes perfectly still, and his heart beats wildly his chest.

He simply couldn’t believe if. Severus wonders at how easily the child trust him, adores him.

He knows he is nowhere worthy of that adoration, but despite himself, he had begun to think of Harry as his son.

He hadn’t been sure if Harry’s returned Severus’s feelings. Until now.

Severus looks down to the boy in his arms and clutches him tighter. A warm, oozey feeling fills his soul.

“That’s alright, son.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Kudos and comments are appreciated. I hope this fic brightens your summer just a little bit. ; )_  
>  Thanks for sticking through this story, everyone. I enjoyed writing and posting it, unbeta-ed though it may be. I’ve read all of your comments, and even if I don’t reply to them, know that they make me smile. =)  
> Longer fics can be hard heh. It’s not my best work; at times I cut corners, lost motivation, and had trouble finding inspiration.  
> But I worked hard on it, was dedicated to it, and _finished_ it. And for that I’m proud of it.  
> Have a great rest of summer, everyone. I’ll see you guys later.


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